"I should say she was," said Mosolof, with a sense of satisfaction."
"Have you known her long?"
"Three years."
"Do you know her well?"
"Yes.—Don't be disturbed," he added, addressing those who were in the sleigh; "it's only because she is tired."
Viéra Pavlovna exchanged significant glances with her husband and Beaumont, and shook her head.
"It's absurd to say she is tired," said Kirsánof.
"I assure you she is tired, that's all. She will fall asleep, and it will all pass," repeated Mosolof, in a calm and indifferent tone."
In ten minutes Katerina Vasílyevna came back.
"How is she?" asked six voices. Mosolof did not ask.
"She went to bed and shut her eyes, and now she must be asleep."
"I told you so," said Mosolof; "it's a mere trifle."
"Still, I am sorry for her," said Katerina Vasílyevna. "We will watch her by turns: you and I, Viérotchka, and Charlie and Sasha."
"Don't let this interfere with our fun," said Mosolof. "We can dance, and shout, and sing; she sleeps very sound."
If she sleeps, if it is a mere trifle, then what does it mean? The disturbing impression caused for quarter of an hour, by the lady in mourning, vanished and was forgotten,—not absolutely, but almost. The party, even in her absence, little by little took the character of all the similar parties which had been held during the winter, and it became gay. Gay, but not without restraint. At least, the ladies half a dozen times exchanged looks of serious solemnity. Twice Viéra Pavlovna whispered stealthily, "Sasha, suppose something of this sort should happen to me?"
Kirsánof, the first time, could not find an answer. But the second time he succeeded. "No, Viéra, nothing of this sort could happen to you."
"Cannot? Are you sure?"
"Yes."
And Katerina Vasílyevna twice whispered to her husband stealthily, "Charlie, this could not happen to me, could it?"
